


The Cupcake Police

by destimushi



Series: The Cupcake Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Castiel is a Little Shit, Cupcake Police, Cupcakes, M/M, PWP, Rockstar Dean, castiel is also a freak, castiel is salty af, how did these feelings get in my porn, prince Albert piercing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 17:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12173886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: “Only idiots order cranberry.”Dean’s finger rests against the glass case in front of a row of cranberry cupcakes, his order frozen on his tongue. Annoyance ripples through him, and Dean straightens and spins to face the judgemental asshole behind him. “What d’you say?”“Did I stutter?” The man stares at Dean with muted blue eyes. “One does not patronize the finest bakery in town only to get a cranberry cupcake. Sacrilege.”“What’re you, the town expert on baked goods or something?” Dean crosses his arms and tucks his chin to glare over the rim of his sunglasses. A flash of brilliant blue nails him to the floor. Holy shit, those eyes are so not muted. But pretty eyes don’t make him less of an asshole. “Well, what would you recommend?”“Salted caramel is where it’s at,” the stranger says without pause. “Everyone knows that.” His face splits in an indulgent smile, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and Dean’s not sure if he wants to wipe that smile off with a fist or a kiss.





	The Cupcake Police

**Author's Note:**

> A little pwp that totally had some feels. Loosely inspired by this thing I read on Reddit about meeting famous people and hooking up with them.

“Only idiots order cranberry.”

Dean’s finger rests against the glass case in front of a row of cranberry cupcakes, his order frozen on his tongue. Annoyance ripples through him, and Dean straightens and spins to face the judgemental asshole behind him. “What d’you say?”

“Did I stutter?” The man stares at Dean with muted blue eyes. “One does not patronise the finest bakery in town only to get a cranberry cupcake. Sacrilege.”

“What’re you, the town expert on baked goods or something?” Dean crosses his arms and tucks his chin to glare over the rim of his sunglasses. A flash of brilliant blue nails him to the floor. Holy shit, those eyes are so not muted. But pretty eyes don’t make him less of an asshole. “Well, what would you recommend?”

“Salted caramel is where it’s at,” the stranger says without pause. “Everyone knows that.” His face splits in an indulgent smile, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and Dean’s not sure if he wants to wipe that smile off with a fist or a kiss.

“Someone’s salty that’s for sure,” Dean mumbles. As rude as the guy is, Dean and his dick are in agreement that Cupcake Police is drop dead gorgeous. Tall nose, chiseled jaw line covered in dark stubble, and a mop of thick, tousled black hair Dean wouldn’t mind running his hands through. His shirt stretches taut across a broad chest, and his short sleeves fight a valiant battle in containing bulging arms.

And those thighs. Christ on a cracker. When was the last time Dean met someone with thighs that put good old denim under such stress?  

Dean catches the girl behind the pastry case, fingers tapping fast and furious on her phone, and sighs. He just wanted a goddamn cupcake, but even the hat, sunglasses, and scarf aren’t enough to hide his identity. And now Salted Caramel here has drawn unnecessary attention, and half the bakery is staring at them. Great. Just fucking great.

“I’ll take a half dozen of the salted caramel.” Dean pushes his sunglasses back into place and fishes out his wallet. “And a triple espresso con panna.” That’s going to end up on twitter before he’s stepped out of the bakery. Oh well.

Sometimes it’s not that what he does always ends up on the internet, but the assumptions people make that pisses him off. Dean Winchester orders half a dozen cupcakes. Is he going through a bad breakup? Is he finally letting it go? Why can’t Dean Winchester just enjoy a cupcake without all the speculation?

He gets it, it’s the price of fame, but sometimes Dean wants to crawl into someone else’s skin for a day and just blend in.

“Coffee, black.” Cupcake Police places his order while Dean waits for his espresso and cupcakes. The barista hands over a steaming cup with a smile, and the man with the incredible thighs flashes one of his own. He turns and gives Dean a mock salute, then steps out of the bakery without a backward glance.

“Your cupcakes are ready.” The girl behind the pastry case pushes a pink box across the counter, her cheeks a shade to match.

Dean grabs the box and his espresso topped with whipped cream and winks at her. It’s not her fault Dean’s in a shitty mood. Might as well make someone’s day. He looks down the street toward his hotel and sighs as clusters of teenage girls skulk the entrance. How do they know? And how do they get here so fast?

Looking up the street, Dean zeros in on a familiar backside. He glances at the cupcakes through the clear plastic film, at the growing group of girls huddled by the hotel entrance, then at those long legs spitting distance between Dean and the first breath of fresh air he’s had all week, and makes up his mind.

“Hey, Cupcake Police,” Dean calls out louder than he should, and eats up the pavement in long, hurried strides.

The man hesitates, then turns and regards Dean with something akin to annoyance and amusement in his shocking blue eyes. “Are you referring to me?”

“Yeah,” Dean says as he catches up and falls in stride with the shorter man. “Do you know who I am?”

“I recognize you like I recognize the bears on the side of my toilet paper packaging.”

“Whoa, all right then.” Dean’s taken aback, but he’s intrigued rather than irritated. Dean Winchester isn’t a household name like Madonna or Beyonce, but he gets a little more screen time than the Charmin family. This lack of adoration is liberating. “Look, I’m gonna be straight with you. It’s not every day I meet someone like you—”

“Someone like me?” The man cuts in dryly. “Someone who doesn’t know who you are? Someone not trying to kiss your boot while asking for a selfie and an autograph?”

“Well, when you put it like that—”

“Now you look, Dean Winchester, I know of you, and I know your kind. I’m not the boot kissing type.”

“I was hoping you’d let me suck your dick instead.” The words tumble out more crude than Dean intended, but it renders the man speechless, and Dean is a little proud of himself for that.

“Come again?”

“Did I stutter?”

The man’s eyes narrow into glowing blue slits, then he barks out a laugh, and his smile melts the layer of ice around his eyes. “Touche, Mr. Winchester. Maybe I underestimated you.”

“So, what do you say? I got a fancy hotel room and a mini bar with your name on it. And salted caramel cupcakes.” Dean shakes the box in the man’s direction.

“Castiel.” He extends his hand, and Dean balances his coffee cup on top of the box before taking it in a firm handshake.

“Well, Castiel,” Dean says and winks over the rim of his sunglasses. “Get ready to have your socks blown off.”

“Oh, please,” Castiel rolls his eyes and laughs. “Just a minute ago you were offering to blow something else.”

Dean shakes his head and hides his smile behind his coffee. He gulps his drink and throws the paper cup into a trash can before pulling out his phone and dialing his driver. “Walk with me.”

Castiel studies him with an intensity that sets his skin buzzing—or maybe it was the three shots of espresso—and nods, takes a step in the direction Dean’s pointing his chin as he tells his driver where to pick them up. He hangs up, but Castiel doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t shy away from him like standing too close to Dean might melt his face off. Castiel strolls with him down the street, coffee in hand, and for the first time in a long time, Dean simply enjoys the silent company of another human being.

A black SUV with tinted windows pulls up beside them. Castiel looks at Dean, one eyebrow cocked as if to say “really?” and Dean shrugs. He doesn’t pick the cars, he rides in them. Dean pulls open the door and Castiel steps through, and Dean tries not to stare at the way the denim hugs Castiel’s ass as he follows.

“How far away is your hotel?”

“Down the street. At the Fairmont.”  

“God gave us two legs for a reason.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to walk up to the hotel with me.” Dean sighs and picks at the edge of the cupcake box. Castiel opens his mouth, then closes it, and Dean’s grateful he doesn’t push. “Garth will drop you off a block away from the hotel entrance. Go up to the front desk and tell them you’re there to see Jensen Ackles, then just follow the instructions and I’ll meet you upstairs.”

“That is...convoluted and not suspicious at all,” Castiel says. There’s no heat behind his words, no malice, and if Dean tries he can pick up just a hint of amusement in the gravel of Castiel’s voice.

The car slows as Garth pulls to the curb. Castiel gets out without a word, and if he’s shocked by the mob of teenage girls (and some not so teenage), he doesn’t show it. Dean watches him wade to the entrance and disappear behind the glass doors before sitting back and huffing out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Only then does he notice the box of cupcakes is missing.

The car peels off into traffic, and it’s another ten minutes before Dean’s walking through the side door undetected. He strolls to the elevators, forces himself to relax and look normal, and lets out a second sigh of relief when the metal doors whisper shut. He punches the button for the eleventh floor, and when he steps out into the hallway, Castiel is already there waiting for him, a pink box in hand.

“Mr. Winchester,” Castiel says with a wide, gummy smile, blue eyes twinkling in the bright fluorescent light. “Thought it might be easier to stay incognito if you weren’t holding a pink box.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Something warm flushes through Dean, leaves him floating and grounded. He pulls out the room key and swipes it, and the lock clicks green.

Castiel follows Dean through the door, then turns and hangs the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle before shutting it. Dean chuckles, throws his hat, sunglasses, and scarf onto a chair, and turns to face Castiel, arms spread wide. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Not so humble.” Castiel sniffs, puts the box on the minibar, and drops his messenger bag off by the door.

Dean shrugs and tries not to hear the unspoken words hanging between them. _Not a home, either._ But this is home, or at least, a sad version of it. Dean lives in hotel rooms just like this, eats expensive, catered food with carefully monitored calories and proteins and fats, and pays for extortionate laundry when he’s out of clean underwear. He doesn’t get to pick the paintings, and he definitely doesn’t have a say over the thread count of the bed sheets.

But hey, he’s living the dream. Isn’t he?

“We don’t have to, you know.” Castiel’s voice cuts through Dean’s thoughts as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “I mean, you’re hot, and I am no troll under the bridge, this could be fun. But I will settle for a cupcake and some sparkling water and your charming company, too, if that’s what you want.”

“Usually that’s my line.” Dean swallows his surprise.

Castiel looks at him with those strange, blue eyes of his, and Dean doesn’t feel like a lab rat under scrutiny. Doesn’t feel like there’s a spotlight over his head, demanding for a performance. Those eyes strip him bare, leaves him open, vulnerable.

Beneath all that blue, he’s not Dean Winchester, rising punk rock sensation. He’s just Dean. And just Dean is good enough.

“I want this.” And Dean does with every molecule of his being. He wants to touch this stranger in this strange bed, and perhaps, just for tonight, the sheets will be warm and the room will smell like home. Dean closes the distance between them, carpet pillowy beneath his booted feet, and drops to his knees between Castiel’s spread legs. “I want you, if you’ll have me.”

The hurricane behind those turbulent blues picks up speed, and Dean lets the waves drag him under. “I followed you here, didn’t I?”

Dean smiles, a genuine thing that spreads warmth into the dark corners of his soul, and reaches for Castiel’s zipper with shaking fingers. Castiel lifts his hips off the bed, giving Dean unrestricted access to do as he pleases. There’s no tremor in Castiel’s limbs, no ramblings of _I can’t believe Dean Winchester’s between my legs_ or _oh my God it’s really him_ falling from those parted lips. Just a soft, satisfied little sigh when Dean finally peels the tight denim from his hips and frees his cock.

“Holy shit, is that a—”

“Is that a complaint?” Cas shrugs with a lopsided smile.

“Hell no.” Dean licks his bottom lip and worries at it, takes in the sight of Cas’ cock and the gleaming barb embedded in the head. A pearl of pre-come beads at the tip, fills the slit to the brim before rolling down the underside. Dean darts in, catches the sticky drop with the tip of his tongue, and looks up as he dots kitten kisses around the piercing.

Cas holds his gaze, blue eyes darkens like a stormy sea. Gentle fingers thread through Dean’s hair and nails scratch along his scalp. It feels good, like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. Like a mug of hot chocolate on a cold, rainy day. Dean hums, content, and kneels a little straighter before taking the head of Cas’ cock between his lips.

The taste hits him first. A cocktail of flavours. It’s intoxicating, and Dean salivates around it, drinks it all down along with Cas’ dick as he plunges forward. Cas jerks beneath him, hands tighten around fistfuls of hair, and Dean hums louder as he pulls back. He glances up, surprised to find Cas’ gaze trained on him. Lust-blown pupils black as night, but there’s something gentle hovering just out of sight, something appreciative, and that urges Dean on more than any dirty talk or empty praises.

He dives forward once more, takes as much of Cas’ cock as he can, then tilts his chin up just right and—

“Jesus Christ,” Cas gasps, and his left knee twitches.  

Dean grins around the base of Cas’ cock, closes his eyes, and nuzzles the bed of coarse curls at the junction of Cas’ thighs before pulling back. He doesn’t get to lavish a cock like this often, not when every person who makes it through the door wants to get on their knees for Dean.

He’s not complaining, a hot mouth and a wet tug on his dick feel good, real good, but it’s a different euphoria when Dean gets to do the worshipping. And Cas looks at him, desire burning in the glowing blue of his eyes. A glint of possessiveness that sends little spiders down Dean’s spine. There’s no awe, no dopey admiration, just a raw flush of unmistakable need; a dusting of pink that shames all the colours in the world.

Dean closes his eyes and focuses on the shaft in his mouth, and the hard barb presses down his throat, leaves behind a cold trail of curiosity. What would it feel like inside him? Would he dare ask?

“You’re thinking so hard I can hear the gears grinding,” Castiel murmurs and yanks Dean off his cock. “You want it, don’t you.” It’s not a question. A simple declaration of a fact Dean cannot deny.

Cas shoves Dean on his ass, then drops onto the floor and pushes between Dean’s jean-clad legs until he’s so close Dean can count the stubble along Cas’ jaw. “I don’t care who you are, but in the next however-long-it-takes-to-get-you-off, you belong to me.”

Dean shudders, lips parting on their own when Cas claims them with a nip and a hot swipe of tongue. Fuck, Cas’ lips are demanding, mouth stealing Dean’s every breath. He tastes so good, and he kisses with a liberating intensity that leaves Dean reeling with clarity. Cas doesn’t want the rockstar, Cas wants _him_ , and isn’t that just the darnedest thing.

He doesn’t know where his clothes disappeared to, doesn’t care how he ended up on the bed, head pushing against the headboard as his hips cant up with unapologetic frenzy. He lets go like he rarely does, moans and cries and whimpers unchecked because for once, he’s not the performer, doesn’t have to sit on some fucked up pedestal and worry about living up to the fantasy.

Dean’s stretched and spread out like dessert at his own banquet, and Cas helps himself to whatever the fuck he wants.  

Cas bends over him, hair matted, skin glistens with sweat, and he doesn’t seem to care that Dean’s utterly gone. Thrives on it even, if that dirty little smirk on the corner of his mouth is anything to go by. Every slick inch of Cas’ cock thrills through him, and despite the condom, the catch of the barb on the rim of his hole sends a metallic shock up his spine with every thrust. It’s alien, foreign, intimate.

It’s driving Dean mad.

Slick fingers wrap around Dean’s straining cock, smears ample pre-come around the head before stroking along the shaft. A silent command, and Dean’s toes curl, throat clenches, and the pressure deep in his belly explodes out of him in a scream.

Something hot hits his chin, hair, and it takes Dean a moment to process the orgasm punching through him. Cas is still stroking his cock, and it twitches like a living thing in Cas’ grasp.

“God, Dean. So gorgeous, I’m—”

“Come, Cas. Fuck me up.” Dean arranges his face into something he thinks is a challenge, but he probably looks as blissed out as he feels. And he doesn’t care.

The fist around his cock disappears, and Cas rears up, hands grip around the base of Dean’s neck, and Dean’s cock twitches. It’s another minute or hour—time has lost its grip on Dean—and Cas collapses.

“Christ on a cracker.” Cas nuzzles Dean’s sweaty skin, cock softening but still buried to the hilt.

Dean clenches, wants to keep Cas in him for as long as possible. “Um, yeah, what you said.”

A soft chuckle brushes along Dean’s collarbone, and Cas pulls out of him with a gentle roll of his hips before flopping on rumpled sheets next to Dean. The room smells like clean sweat and sex, but it doesn’t leave Dean wanting to strip the sheets.

Huh.

“Hey,” Cas says into the air above them.

“Hey,” Dean replies into that same puff of air. He’s floating through the sound of Cas’ voice, and the single syllable wraps around him like a cool fresh breeze. A thought runs through his head, picks at his brain through the fog, and Dean swallows before he asks, “Can I—can we exchange—”

“No.”

Dean’s heart crawls under the bed, sits in the dark, dusty corner, and folds in on itself.

“I won’t become another entry in your booty-call list”—Cas turns to face Dean—“under some stupid name like ‘barbed dick.’ Next time you want me, come find me.”

“Where?”

“My bakery, of course.”   

Oh.

_Oh._


End file.
